The Seven Year Solution
by Someday Sara
Summary: A modern-day Watson reconnects with her childhood friend Holmes, after seven years apart - but more than time divides them, and more than one life hangs in the balance.
1. An Hour

No sooner had I arrived in England than I decided that someone was trying to kill me.

I suppose it shouldn't have come as a surprise, given the shameful circumstances under which my mother and I left our adopted country. But as the taxi from the airport took the corners too sharply for me to hold on, I cursed the day I decided that medical school in England was a good idea. I scrambled in my purse for mace, and then remembered that the TSA screener had taken it stateside.

For my protection, of course.

I tried to open the taxi door, only to hear the dull click of the lock. The window, however, rolled manually. If I couldn't jump, I could at least scream for help. The taxi driver glanced over his shoulder and pulled a gun. He shot twice at the back window, which shattered. I screamed, and he suddenly turned his attention back to the road and spun the wheel to avoid an oncoming truck.

The car tipped wildly for a moment, then rolled twice, landing back on all four wheels with a precarious shudder. I was seeing stars but I thrust myself through the now jagged window and out into the dark London night.

I began to run.

It had been seven years since I'd set foot in London, and here I was again, running pell-mell down the foggy, cobbled streets. I never thought I'd be back, and now I was desperately wishing I wasn't. A heel broke, and I kicked my shoes away. There was a light up ahead, and I threw myself into a pub, gasping for breath.

"Help! Please, help." I panted into the suddenly silent establishment. "Someone just tried to shoot me, please call the police."

The red-faced patrons were frozen in place, comically still with pool cues and lazily smoking cigarettes. The bartender put down the glass he was polishing and reached for the phone. "Easy now, miss, we'll take care of you," he reached for the phone. "What's your name, love?"

"Sara Watson," I said, doubling over with a cramp.

The phone jangled as the bartender slammed it back into its cradle. "Watson?"

I suddenly realized I should have lied. "Uh…" I scanned the room. The surprised faces had turned hard, frowning. I took a step backwards. "Please, I need help."

"Like we needed help, eh? Seven years ago?" A man at the back stood and spit through chapped lips. His red-lidded eyes bored into mine. "I think you'd best leave, little miss."

I backed away, slowly, and then flung myself through the door, the shame of my father's crimes burning up my face. I stood in the doorway, heart hammering, listening for footsteps, or the squeal of tires, or the bark of a gun. All I could hear were the sounds of the pub slowly coming to life behind me. Barefoot for the loss of my shoes, I slowly stepped out into the unusually cold night. I was alone, utterly alone – no money, no cell phone, and completely lost. I felt tears welling up in my eyes, and I took another step forward into the night.

My head snapped back as I was grabbed from behind. A dirty hand clamped over my mouth and someone dragged me into the alley beside the pub.

"Don't scream. Don't say a thing. Do exactly as I say." It was the red-eyed man. "I'm going to call a cab. Don't take the first, or the second, but wait for the third. Tell the driver to take you to Baker street. Have the landlady pay him. Wait for me there."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "Holmes?" I whispered into his palm. He loosened his grip slightly.

"The third cab," he repeated, and pushed me away. I spun to see him in the half-darkness, but his back was already to me, and he opened a door to the pub and disappeared behind it.

I'd been in London for an hour. It's really a wonder he hadn't found me sooner.


	2. An Evening

There was a sign in the window that said "Rooms to Let." I raised my fist and knocked on the green door, the taxi idling impatiently behind me. I shifted in my bare feet, which were starting to numb.

With a creak, the door opened to reveal a woman well into her seventies, gray hair pinned in absentminded curls, a dishtowel over one shoulder. She wore a white turtleneck stiffly and neatly tucked into blue jeans that ended politely just above two tan loafers. She didn't seemed surprised to see me, and took in my sweaty, flushed face, messy hair, and bare, bleeding feet with a single glance. "Help you?" she asked, curtly.

"I … I'm… He-he told me to ask you to pay the cabbie, please… I'm sorry…"

"Never mind, never mind, standard practice. Get inside and I'll clear things up." She simultaneously ushered me inside and shut the door behind her.

I found myself in a long, narrow townhouse. There was an ominous grandfather clock in one corner, and it chimed the quarter hour. The hallway was dimly lit, but a door at the far end had the bright promise of a kitchen. I inhaled deeply and was rewarded with the scent of a cake in the oven, or perhaps it was a loaf of bread cooling.

The door opened again behind me. "Now then," the woman said. "You can wait upstairs for Mr. Holmes." She brushed past me to the kitchen. "Go on, then."

I turned and put a shaking hand out to steady myself on the banister, and then began to climb. The carpet got dirtier as I went higher, which shouldn't have surprised me. There was only one door at the top of the landing, and I put a hand out to the brass knob, turned it, and went inside.

It was a large sitting room with two doors, undoubtedly opening into bedrooms beyond. I took a sharp breath at the mess. There were trays of food on the center table – old newspapers in the fireplace – Holmes' violin, carelessly tossed in an armchair. There was bookshelf after bookshelf, crammed tight with papers, binders, leather bound books, magazines. There were shoes on the mantelpiece. There was a table lamp on its side on the floor, plugged in and shining miserably in the corner, next to a desk with four different laptops surrounded by a chemistry collection that should, by all rights, have placed Holmes on a terrorist watch list. The curtains – dark red and dusty – were closed tight.

I found an armchair and emptied it of its contents: a blanket, a baseball cap, two different tubes of lipstick, a bottle of contact lens solution, several handfuls of cash, and a machete. I sat, still trembling with adrenaline, and waited.

And waited.

Downstairs the clock chimed out eleven, and then midnight. My feet hurt too much to pace, so I drew myself into a ball, closed my eyes, and slept.

I jolted awake at the sound of the door opening. The red-eyed man from the bar shot me a disapproving glance before crossing the room in three strides, opening the door on the far end, and slamming it shut behind him.

Good to see you too, Holmes. I sat up and ran a hand through my hair, pulling tangles apart and trying not to think of the mess my makeup must be in.

Ten minutes later the door opened to reveal Holmes. He was harder than I remembered. The boyish round face was replaced with the sharp angles of a very thin man. His nose, always beakish, had been accentuated by the change in weight and now it looked almost menacing. His eyes were darker than I remembered, and they had an odd shadow about them, as if they were further back than the rest of his face. His hair was the same odd brown, but now it was dark with water and slicked back carefully.

"You've a ring on your finger," he said, rolling back his shirtsleeves.

I glanced down, surprised to be reminded. I shifted the small engagement ring with the other hand. "Yes, yes I do. His name is Ryan."

Homes reached into one of the shoes on the mantelpiece and pulled out a cigar. He lit it, then studied me carefully.

"You almost ruined two years of an investigation bursting into the pub like that."

I stiffened with anger. "Sorry if it was a bad time to be murdered for you." My voice was high and tight with anger.

"What the hell are you doing here anyway?"

"Medical school."

"Where?" he barked.

"King's College."

"In London."

"Yes."

He blew a puff of cigar smoke dismissively. "Stupid."

"Oh? Why's that?"

He took a step closer. "Because everyone here remembers."

I stood out of my chair. "Remembers my father? Funny, I remember that too! I remember that YOU were the one to turn him in, that YOU were the one who – "

"You'll excuse my lack of remorse – "

Now we were both shouting, neither of us listening to the other.

"- couldn't possibly imagine what it's been like for me – "

"- killed more in a day than any other – "

"- seven years and you never bothered to - "

"You LEFT!" he shouted, and I quieted.

"I had too, Holmes, I wasn't even sixteen."

Holmes' cigar had gone out. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and gave a few quiet puffs. "No one wants the Watsons back. Most of them –" he gestured vaguely towards the window, "have no idea what really happened, and they're just as ready to hate you as your father."

"You don't think I know that?" My chin began to quiver. "They came for me at the airport."

"Who?" Holmes was quietly taught, looking like a hound on the scent.

"I don't even know." I slumped back into the armchair. Holmes sat in the one across the rug, folding his fingertips together.

"Tell me everything."

I shook my head, "I got off the plane, found my suitcases and went outside to catch a cab. One of the cabbies came up to me and offered to take me to King's College."

"How, exactly?"

"He just said, 'King's College, miss?' I was too busy with the bags to give it a second thought." I paused and tried to remember his face. "He was caucasian, with a buzz cut . Blonde hair. A scar, here, under his left eye." I pointed and Holmes opened his eyes to watch. "I got in the taxi, and he drove normally until we left the airport, at which point he floored it and took off down back roads. I tried to roll down the window, but he shot at me and then crashed the car. I managed to get out, and I took off running. Threw myself into the first business I could find."

Holmes hummed. "Of all the gin-joints in all the towns in all the world…"

"Holmes?"

He fell silent, and I could hear the clock ticking on the floor below us. "Who knew you were coming?"

"My mother. Ryan. Friends from college. The admissions staff. The housing staff."

"Your father?"

"I haven't spoken to my father in seven years, Holmes."

"Habit of yours, then."

"Go to hell."

There was another silence. "You lost your luggage."

"Yes, I suppose I should call the police."

"I doubt there's a scrap of evidence left." He paused. "There's an extra bedroom here."

I sighed and closed my eyes. "I'd rather not."

Holmes harrumphed. "So you'll sleep on the street? Have Mrs. Hudson find you some blankets." He stood, turned heel and slammed the left bedroom door behind him.

I pushed myself out of my chair, slowly, and went to find the landlady. The kitchen downstairs was empty, and I didn't have the heart to knock on her bedroom door. After some shuffling around, I found the linen closet, and helped myself to an armful of sheets, a few blankets, and a towel. I climbed the stairs again. Just as I tried to make my way through the door to the sitting room, Holmes was coming out – or rather, a shabby, droopy eyed cabby was coming out. His eyelids were puffed and bruised, his hair matted with sweat and dirt, his fingers and teeth stained yellow from tobacco. There was an awkward pause as we both tried to stand in the door. Our eyes met and I saw Holmes' face carefully stiffen.

"Holmes," I began, and then fell silent, unsure.

He pushed past me, turned up his jacket collar and left, without looking back.

I turned, carefully picked my way through the messy sitting room, and opened the right bedroom.

It was horrifically dusty, with a mattress frame, mattress, and a dresser missing one of its three drawers. I pounded on the bed a few times, kicking up swarms of dust clouds, and then pulled the sheets over it. There were no pillows.

Between the two bedrooms was a small bathroom, and I entered carefully. The sink was crusted over with stage makeup, and the mirror splattered with god knows what. At first I thought the tub was brown, but then I realized it was one large dye stain. The shower curtain was held up by three very put upon rings, and the taps were almost rusted shut. Feeling filthy, I helped myself to a rather cold and dribbly shower, dried myself as best I could, and redressed in the cleanest of my clothes.

The bed, however uninviting it had looked at first, was soft, and the blankets were warm. I lay on my back and stared at the dark ceiling, the cobwebs fluttering in some unseen air. The clock downstairs ticked relentlessly, and I could almost imagine the sound was Holmes' footsteps as he paced the streets of London, turning up his jacket against the night.


	3. A Mess

When I rolled awake in the morning, I found a stack of newly purchased clothes on the dresser, and a pair of crisp white sneakers beside that on the floor. I pushed back the blankets and stood, running a hand through my helplessly bed-headed hair. There was a pair of jeans, a package of four women's t-shirts, a bag of tube socks, and some assorted underthings. I checked the tags and blushed to see that he had guessed my exact size – in everything. But I was grateful for a change of clothes, and I dressed, pulling off price tags and "inspected by" stickers as I went.

Dressed, I opened the bedroom door to find Holmes, reading the paper, leaning back from the table, nearly indecent in a pair of shorts, a dingy white shirt, and two slippers that didn't match. He glanced up as I entered. "Breakfast," he grunted, and indicated a tray on the center table.

"Your landlady makes you breakfast?"

Holmes didn't answer, and I was hungry. I hadn't eaten since the plane ride the day before, and even then it was one of those ridiculous bags of "pretzels." I helped myself to eggs and toast, and Holmes, folding his paper, poured me a cup of tea. I accepted it with a quiet "Thanks," wishing it was dark, strong coffee instead.

"I found the cabbie," he said.

I sputtered. "That's where you went last night?"

"He was a new hire. First day on the job. He left a fake address, and his work visa was a forgery. However, a man fitting his description had rented an apartment in London for a week, paid cash, left last night. There was some trash in the apartment, and not much else. As for the scene of the accident, I was right, it was clean by the time I returned there, just a few pieces of broken glass. You're dealing with a very thorough killer, Watson. Who wants you dead?"

The question hung in the air. "Doesn't everyone? Isn't that what you said last night?"

Holmes frowned. "I may have over exaggerated. It's true that most people care very little for you and yours, but the general populace is not ready to take up arms at your arrival. Watson is a relatively common name. You could hide behind 'no relation.'"

I sighed, remembering the faces in the pub. "I think I will, from now on."

Holmes stood. "I have an appointment, you'll need to leave."

"An appointment?"

"Yes, here," Holmes reached into a second shoe on the mantelpiece and withdrew a handful of bank notes. "Go out and buy yourself… whatever it is you need." He handed me several 50 pound notes.

I took the cash, folded it more neatly, and leaned back to tuck it in a pocket. "Is it safe for me to go out?"

"Yes. Quite."

I gulped down the rest of my breakfast. "If you say so, Holmes. What kind of appointment?"

He had already disappeared behind his bedroom door. I sighed and inwardly rolled my eyes, and then went to shop. After conferring with Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, I turned to the right and walked the half mile to a small shopping center. I bought myself a hairbrush, a toothbrush, toothpaste, soaps, shampoo, and other supplies at a pharmacy, and then found a clothing store to stock up on pants, shoes, shirts, and the like. I was nervous, half expecting another assassin to jump from the middle of the clothing racks. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being followed, either, and twice I could have sworn I saw the same man go into a shop behind me. I decided it was just nerves, and I gathered my purchases and turned for Baker street. I was grateful to Holmes for the cash, but tomorrow I would have to visit the American consulate and apply for a replacement ID, and find a way to call the credit card companies and have another card shipped to me.

I plodded back to Baker street, weighed down by my purchases. The door was locked, and I had to ring for Mrs. Hudson.

She let me in with an icy frown. "Mr. Holmes says you're to stay."

"Y-yes," I stammered, awkwardly stumbling inside. "Until I can find my own place. We – we knew each other in high school."

"Aye." Mrs. Hudson paused. "Where's your fiancée?"

I froze. "In the states," I was already a few steps up the staircase, but I turned to meet her gaze.

"So you left him, to come to live with Mr. Holmes?"

"No- no, this was an accident. I don't have any – "

"If you're anything like the others, you'll be sore disappointed." She tramped down the hallway, leaving me hideously embarrassed on the stairs, her words ringing in my ears. _If you're anything like the others_… So there have been others. That's to be expected, I chided myself. You've had your share of others. Ryan. I felt the cold fingers of loneliness wrap around me. I missed him with a sudden, pounding ache. Ryan Morstan, secondary school teacher and best friend. I missed his warm smile, all the warmer in comparison to my brooding, temperamental, filthy Holmes.

I returned to my new bedroom to find it cleaned, the curtains opened, the mid morning light shining in on a new carpet, the dresser with the third drawer mysteriously returned, and a set of pillows on the bed. For all her cold words, Mrs. Hudson had certainly been kind.

I unpacked my new clothes. I put my toiletries atop the dresser – rather than subject them to the crusty, nasty bathroom. I looked around, at a loss, and then hunted down a telephone. I called the credit card companies, and had them cancel my cards and ship me new ones. I called the consulate, and made an appointment. I called my mother, to let her know all was "fine" – I conveniently left out my near death experience, I knew that would only frighten her, and she had never been the same since… I shook my head and dialed Ryan. I was on the phone with him when Holmes returned.

"Yes, promise – " I said, as Holmes unceremoniously flung open the door and kicked his shoes off. "I'll call you later. Love you too. M'bye." I hung up the phone. "I'll pay for the long distance," I said to Holmes.

"Did a favor for the phone company. We don't pay for any calls."

"Oh. What kind of favor?"

He avoided my question. "You weren't followed."

"Followed where?"

"While you were shopping."

"You followed me, though!" I said, with sudden comprehension.

"Yes. I wanted to see if you were targeted – if your mysterious ill-wisher knew you were here. Did you tell anyone, just now, where you were?"

"I told Ryan."

"He doesn't mind, you living with your dear old high school sweetheart?"

The sarcasm in his voice stung. "I told him you were gay. I wish you were, maybe then the bathroom wouldn't smell like a rat died in there."

"Beggars can't be choosers, Watson."

"As soon as my cards arrive, I'm out. I ordered new ones today."

Holmes had been halfway to lighting a cigarette. He paused for a moment, face unreadable. "Very well."

"Since when do you smoke?" I asked, unable to keep the disapproval from my voice.

He cupped his hands around the lighter. "Necessary." He mumbled around the cigarette. "I have to keep up appearances during some of my investigations."

"You're not investigating now. It's unhealthy."

"You're not a doctor."

"Will be in four years."

"Then shove off until then." Holmes banged his bedroom door behind him. I was left standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by the mess. This room was a mess. He was a mess. And so I bent down, and began to clean.


	4. The Embassy

SHOUT OUT TO MY REVIEWERS: Thanks, Kenta Divina and GSRqueen4ever! Reviews literally make my day. And now back to your regularly scheduled fanfic:

He shut himself away the whole afternoon, leaving me to eat dinner alone, in the sitting room, while an evening rain pattered down the windows. I had gone to bed without seeing him, without expecting to see him, but now I was roused from my sleep by the sound of his violin.

It wasn't a composition I recognized, but it was low and sorrowful, and a touch angry. I crept out of bed and stood at my door, listening. I was moved, it was beautiful… I pressed an ear against the door to hear better, and the music suddenly stopped.

"You can come out, Watson," was the sarcastic drawl.

Caught. Oh well. I turned the handle and opened the door to the sitting room, straining to see him in the utter darkness. He was slouched in an armchair, and he reached out and turned on the table lamp, which I had restored to its rightful place only this afternoon. He sat back in the chair and fingered his violin softly, making the strings give little sighs of music.

"Well, what is it, Watson?"

I shook my head. "Nothing. You play beautifully, is all."

Holmes harrumphed. "You knew that already."

"I did." I sat in the other armchair. "But remembering something beautiful and hearing it again aren't quite the same thing."

Holmes shot me a suspicious glance, as if I'd said something inappropriate.

"Oh, come off it, Holmes." I snapped. "I'm tired of suspicious glances and… and the way you stiffen up around me. I know full well we had a history, but we were kids, for chrissake. I've been with other people since then, and I'll wager you have too. And now I'm engaged. He's a good man, Holmes, and I love him very much. And I didn't come back to London for you. So you can get off your high horse and play." I leaned back and closed my eyes, my heart thudding at my own daring. The clock downstairs clicked the seconds – one, two, three, four – before Holmes broke the silence.

"Any requests?"

"Meditations from Thais."

Holmes began to play. I sighed. He did play beautifully. This was my favorite…

I began to relax, and my heart rate slowed. The music was soothing, and I fell asleep in the chair, waking to the morning to the sun shining in on me. I stood, and discovered a horrific crick in my neck. I glanced at the clock and was relieved that I hadn't missed my appointment at the consulate. Holmes entered the sitting room, adjusting a button down shirt, a tie haphazardly around his neck.

"Wouldn't have let you miss it," he said, following my gaze to the clock. "Get dressed, I'm coming with you."

"Why? You're not American."

"No, but I do know the undersecretary, and he'll be able to straighten everything out." He stuffed a piece of yesterday's dinner, still on the table, into his mouth. "We'll have him open an investigation into the cabbie." He tied his necktie, seemingly carelessly. "Get a shower, you look hung over."

I snorted in indignation, but went to do as he said. While I was gone, Mrs. Hudson brought the breakfast tray and I sat for some toast and tea before we left. Holmes took a jacket from the coat rack next to the door, which surprised me, given the midmorning summer heat. We hailed a cab at the door, and Holmes sent the first two on their way with a quick apology, before opening the door of the third for me.

I slid in, my brand new dress pants slick against the taxi cab seats. Holmes got in beside me, and asked the cabbie to take us to the embassy. Then he leaned back, arms across the back of the seat, and closed his eyes, humming under his breath.

I glanced at him, and noticed something bulky in his jacket pocket. Curious, I reached across the seat and pressed a palm against the hard shape.

Holmes' hand snapped around my wrist and jerked me back, but not before I had felt the distinctive outline of a gun. "Are you nuts?" I hissed.

"Don't make a scene," he said softly, his eyes narrowing.

"You'll get us both arrested."

"It's licensed."

"You can't take that into the embassy."

Holmes threw my arm away. "Actually, I can."

I slid as far away from him as I could and stared out the window, trying to hide my suddenly pale face. I damn well hoped he knew what he was doing. The rest of the taxi cab ride was silent, and when we arrived I let myself out, without waiting for Holmes to open the door for me. The sunlight was hot on the top of my head, and I shielded my eyes to gaze at the embassy – which was square, many windowed, and featured a prominent bald eagle atop its otherwise plain front. Holmes paid the cabbie, checked his jacket pockets (for his gun, I realized with a shudder), and then nodded to me that we could go in.

There was a secretary at a desk, in the middle of a tiled, circular antechamber. She greeted us, and Holmes handed her a card. "Yes, Mr. Atwater is expecting you. Just a moment." She pushed a button and spoke into her headset. "Sherlock Holmes here to see you, sir." Her eyes refocused on us. "He'll be right down."

It was only another minute before a well dressed elderly man appeared from a staircase at the far end of the antechamber, and came forward to meet us. "Aaron Atwater, pleased to meet you, Miss Watson. Good to see you again, Mr. Holmes." He shook both our hands. "I've arranged a private meeting room, we'll get you all straightened out."

Applying for a replacement visa and passport was easier than I expected. We were seated before an elaborate mahogany table, and Mr. Atwater produced several papers for me to sign. The paperwork was already filled out with my name, birthday, and other information. Suddenly apprehensive, I looked up at Mr. Atwater.

"I was expecting more trouble than this," I said.

Mr. Atwater's cheerful face drooped slightly. "We know who you are, Miss Watson. The embassy was alerted when you first made your travel plans."

I blushed. "Oh."

After a half-dozen signatures, I was ushered away to be photographed, fingerprinted, and then stood waiting while an enormous and dangerous looking copier slowly churned out my new visa, then my passport. They were handed to me and I opened them, enjoying the holographic eagles and flags I could make appear by tilting them in the light.

"All set?" Mr. Atwater asked.

"Yes, thank you."

"Now," he said, glancing between Holmes and I. "I've arranged an interview with Scotland Yard as well as an FBI representative. If you're prepared to give a statement…"

I had a sudden flashback. I was in the cold, dark interrogation room, rocking back and forth to the sound of my own sobbing. The detective repeated the question "Are you prepared to give a statement?"

"Yes!" The sob burst out of me. "It was my father, it was all my father!"

In the present day, I shook my head, to clear it of demons. "Yes," quietly, "I'm ready."

We returned to the conference room, and Holmes pulled a chair out for me to sit. I was torn between gratitude for his consideration and irritation at the old-fashioned gesture. We were all poured water, and then the two detectives on the other side of the table asked me for my story.

So I told them – of my decision to come to medical school in England, which was largely financial. I told them of the cabbie that had attempted to abduct me, in as much detail as I could. I told them of the pub, and the people's reaction. I then glossed over Holmes' role, saying that I decided to look up Holmes, my only friend in London.

I finished my narrative, and the detectives asked a few clarifying questions. And then, the man from Scotland Yard cleared his throat. "I'll have to ask you to leave, Mr. Atwater, Mr. Holmes."

They stood, and I felt a panic rise. Despite the lush surroundings of the embassy, I had no desire to repeat my Scotland Yard experience of seven years ago. I tried to meet Holmes' eyes as he left, but he avoided my gaze. I turned back to the two detectives.

"When is the last time you spoke to your father?"

"I haven't… not since the trial."

"No phone calls? No letters?"

I hesitated. "There was a letter. Once. On my eighteenth birthday."

The detective nodded slightly and I had the suspicion he already knew that. "What did it say?"

"Angry nonsense mostly. Claims that he was innocent. And he told me to take care of my mother. That's about all."

"Where is that letter now?"

"I… I don't know. I think I threw it away."

"Do you have any plans to visit your father?"

"No." I looked down and my hands, shamed. "No."

"You shouldn't lie to us," the Scotland Yard detective said.

"I'm not!"

"You came back to England to be near your father. Why?"

"I didn't! I came for medical school!"

"Why not the states?"

"Too expensive."

"So, you have access to funds here?"

"No! I took out student loans."

"We know you met with your father's broker – Alan Tinsdale."

"I've never even _heard_ of him." I started to sweat, a little nervous. "I've not met with anyone, except Holmes."

"There were no witnesses to your taxi cab accident. We've seen the airport footage, the cab driver behaved normally."

"He tried to kill me!" I shouted. "He tried to kill me and you're saying, that, that I made it all up?"

"No one's saying that, Miss Watson, we're just trying to explore all angles." The detectives closed their notebooks, one after another. "You can go now. We'll open an investigation, and keep you informed. Can you be reached at the Baker street address?"

"Yes. I… uh, thank you." I tore from the room, brushed past Holmes waiting in the hallway, and thundered down the stairs into the atrium and then into the summer sunshine. Holmes followed at a clip.

I strode down the street, not caring where I was going. "You left me!" I hissed through clenched teeth. "You left me in there while tweedle dee and tweedle dum accused me of lying, accused me of working with my father."

Holmes kept up with me easily. "Of course they did – to gauge your reaction. Which is apparently shame and agitation. Stop crying."

"I am _not_ crying." I wiped a hand across my eyes.

"Where are you going?"

"I don't care."

Holmes fell into step beside him, without comment, seemingly content to let me walk aimlessly. Eventually my paced slowed, and I found myself in the bustling downtown.

"Flower for the lady?" A street vendor shoved a rose in my face.

"No, thank you." I shifted away and continued walking. The vendor followed me. "Best rose in England, miss. From someone special it is."

"I said no thank you."

"Just a moment," Holmes cut in. "I think we will take one."

"A pound, sir."

Holmes paid him, and the vendor handed the rose to me. I took it gingerly, suspiciously.

"Wait a minute, you've got change," the vendor said, although Holmes had clearly paid him with a one pound note. Holmes took the folded bill, and the vendor shuffled off. Holmes unfolded the cash the vendor had given him, to reveal a white note-card. In handwritten pencil it said I KNOW YOU ARE IN LONDON. TAKE EVERY PRECAUSION.

"Oh, God," I said.

"Do you recognize the handwriting?"

"No. But it has to be my father, doesn't it? Who else cares that I'm here?"

Holmes flipped the card over, held it to the light, smelt it, rubbed it between his fingers. "Highly uninformative. Clearly store bought."

I was turning around in circles, expecting to be attacked. "Oh God, he's going to kill me?"

"Calm down, you look spastic."

"Calm down? I – "

"This isn't a threat Watson. It's a warning. Perhaps someone is trying to protect you."

"Oh very well then," I snapped, sarcastic. "Fancy a cup of tea?"

"Yes." Tucking the card in a jacket pocket, he walked a couple of paces down the street and into a café. For a moment I toyed with the idea of leaving him, hailing a cab and making my own way back to Baker street. But perhaps it was best not to antagonize him. I threw the rose in a nearby trash bin and went to join him.


	5. The Organ Grinder

"I thought today I would go and look at apartments," I said to Holmes, a few days later, over breakfast. He let his newspaper droop, in order to see me. Face blank, I chewed my eggs and stared back.

He harrumphed and flicked the newspaper back, obscuring his face.

Taking that as a dismissal, I gathered my purse and left, hailing a cab at the door, too practical to reenact Holmes' neurotic third-taxi rule. I spent the day dogging around the city, shaking hands with smiling leasing agents and walking like a ghost through abandoned rooms. I quickly realized that my limited budget gave me very few options, and of those options, most smelled like cat pee.

I took myself out to lunch, sitting alone at a table for two.

He plays the violin at all hours. I told myself. He smokes. The bathroom is a mess. There's a chemistry set on the dinner table, and half the furniture has burn marks. He's dirty. He's moody. I glanced at the empty chair across from me.

"Need anything, miss?"

I stared up at the waiter, startled out of my reverie. "Yes, I think I do."

I ordered lunch, ate quickly, and paid with my newly arrived Mastercard. I began to walk back to Baker street – my circular route through the city brought me close to home.

Home – as I said the word in my head, I was struck by the implications. Yes, it was smelly. Yes, I had to check the armchairs for sharps before I sat. But it was also home.

I let myself into 221B and trudged up the stairs to the sitting room. Holmes was at his desk, a cigar clenched between his teeth, taking apart a clock/radio and apparently trying to fit a webcamera into it.

"How much is rent?"

"300 pounds a month." He said, without missing a beat. "I gave Mrs. Hudson your first and last months' yesterday."

I felt a smile creaking around the corners of my mouth. "Thanks."

Later, I would remember those few summer weeks before school began as some of the happiest. I launched an assault on the general filth of the apartment, while making allowances for Holmes' eccentric nature – the cigar shoe was allowed to stay, and I knew better than to touch the chemistry set. I'm sure the cleaning annoyed him, but I took it as a gesture of goodwill that Holmes' didn't object when I chipped the crusted makeup off the bathroom sink, or vacuumed the rug.

I soon discovered that Holmes was an avid concert-goer, and the warm summer evenings were perfect for outdoor venues. I would bring a blanket, and Holmes would lie back in the grass, eyes closed, while I sat with my knees pulled to my chest, drinking in the music and the warm, fading sunlight of summer.

It wasn't all evenings in the park, however. I learned quickly that only a locked door would insure privacy, and that a hairdryer, no matter how well aimed, would fail to inflict damage. I learned that Holmes could go an entire day without speaking, thoroughly engrossed in some new reading, or laying prostrate, eyes closed but roving back and forth beneath his lids, thinking. I learned to expect to him to come and go at all hours of the night. I learned that he liked to practice his violin, forcefully, every time Ryan called. And I learned that I didn't mind – at least, not really.

And there were, of course, the adventures. In my short time there Holmes singled handedly solved the mystery surrounding the disappearance of the prime minister's daughter, and once he even dragged me along, when he chased down the so called "ATM bandit." And there was the Soviet scandal, regarding the most famous family in England, but it would be a grave indiscretion for me to say any more.

It was a summer to remember.

But that summer, like all summers, ended, and I found myself thrust into medical school, suddenly weighted with textbooks, exams, lab practicals, clinic duty. I purchased a desk and a model skeleton, and Holmes didn't object to their presence in the sitting room. We spent many a quiet evening, each engaged in our own pursuits, as the London fall crept up on us.

A few weeks into the semester I applied for a research position at one of the labs in the hospital, studying the physiology of snake venom. While my primary interest was surgery, this was a invaluable resume padder.

My adivsor's name was Dr. Stoner, which I found hilarious. Holmes dismissed my giggling as immature. Dr. Stoner was a short, balding man with squinted, piggy eyes and thick glasses. He seemed more at ease with his snakes than with people, but he was always very civil to me.

The laboratory was on the second floor of Charing Cross hospital, and was guarded more jealously than a bank vault. The doors were locked, and only a few were allowed to know the keypad code. The lab consisted of two rooms: an office with desks and filing cabinets, and then the laboratory itself, one wall of which contained the snakes in double locked, electronically controlled plexiglass cages. If any of the cages were to open inappropriately, alarm bells would start ringing throughout the hospital, and then lab itself would go on immediate lockdown. The only person with access to the locks controlling the cages was Dr. Stoner himself, and the electronic key was under a retinal scan and fingerprint lock.

The lab and the office were also stocked with special spring loaded syringes of anti-venom, and we were all trained in their use. In fact, I had to demonstrate I could do it to myself, with a dummy filled with saline. It wasn't very pleasant, but it was worth it to know that I was safe and sound.

The focus of the lab was using snake venom as an anti-cancer agent. Dr. Stoner was rapidly becoming famous for his work, showing that swamp adder venom could decrease tumor size or even eradicate the tumor altogether. While most research labs did their work in mice, or HeLa cells, Dr. Stoner went straight for the kill – so to speak – by using tumors from cadavers, cancer patients who had donated their bodies to science. This meant that one of my duties was, ironically, to ensure that all the cadavers were properly documented.

That particular irony reared its very ugly head a few weeks into my job. I was sitting in the hospital cafeteria, eating my sandwich and leafing through a newspaper when something on the overhead television made the entire cafeteria go quiet.

"Scandal at Charing Cross?" The newscaster barked, and the talk slowly dwindled as people strained to hear. Someone reached up and turned up the volume. Beside a picture of the hospital, the newscaster raised her eyebrows. "Is the Organ Grinder's daughter picking up the family business?"

I felt a cold sweat break out all over. The newscaster continued. "You all remember Arthur Watson, whose bloody black market organ business can to a screeching halt when authorities began finding _human limbs in the Thames_."

I felt like vomiting. I could remember that first day, walking along the river, when we had come across a foot – a bloody, dismembered human foot. And then there were more, more, more washing up on the banks – lifeless heads without eyes – ribcages cracked open – innocent people snatched from the streets, carved up for a liver, or a lung, or a heart, and then thrown into the black water. My vision began to cloud with little dark specks, and I took deep breaths, trying not to faint.

"And now," the newscaster continued. "An inside source tells us that Sara Watson has returned to London – possibly to follow in her father's footsteps?" My smiling picture appeared on the screen. "Ms. Watson is employed at Charing Cross, and currently in charge of properly documenting the corpses used in a prominent research lab. Some are decrying the decision to hire her as immoral and frighteningly corrupt. Senior medical correspondent Dr. Michael Burbary will be joining us tonight at 8 to discuss the ethics of this highly _unusual_ situation."

The newscaster moved on to other stories, but every head in the cafeteria slowly swiveled to stare at me. I felt the nausea rising in my stomach. They began to whisper, and I couldn't hold back the sick any longer. I fled to the nearest bathroom to vomit my meager lunch into the sink. _The Organ Grinder's daughter_… the words rang in my ears, and I closed my eyes against the hot tears. I was a fool, an utter fool ever to come back.

My knees were shaking, but I knew I had to go back to work. There was a new shipment of cadavers arriving late this evening, and now, more than ever, I needed to make sure everything was completely by the book. I washed my face, braced myself, and then exited the bathroom.

I could tell that most of the hospital staff had not seen the newscast, but the few that had were obvious – they did a double take as I passed, and then followed me with their eyes. I pushed my shaking fists into the pockets of my lab coat and did my best to ignore the stares.

In the lab, I tripled checked the paperwork for each of the five cadavers arriving, and then found Dr. Stoner to sign off on each of the clipboards. He did so absently, indifferently, and it was obvious he hadn't seen the newscast. If he had, I'd probably already been fired.

The cadavers were scheduled to arrive at 8 pm, and half an hour before then I went down to the morgue to await their arrival.

The morgue, surprisingly, was not terribly spooky. It was well lit, tiled, with wide doors that opened to the outside, so that the ambulance carrying the cadavers could pull right up to the room. After a few minutes of waiting, the door buzzed, opened, and a pair of EMTs began unloading the bodies, which were zipped in black bags and strapped to gurneys. I shook hands, as per usual, and exchanged the paperwork as carefully as I could. The EMTs left shortly thereafter, and I went down the row of gurneys, attaching the clipboards with their information to a hook at their feet.

Something about the fifth body gave me pause, however. It was an unusually tall cadaver. I glanced at the clipboard. John Doe – the name of an unknown patient. But we don't take unknown patients. With a concerned frown, I unzipped the body bag.

It was Holmes.

Blood rushed in my ears. "No," I whispered, and felt my knees give way. I crashed to the floor. "No. No. No!"

And then I heard the body bag rustle. I looked up to see the corpse sit slowly upright. Now I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat violently. I scrambled backwards, still screaming.

The corpse turned to look at me. "For goodness sake, Watson, it's me."

I choked on the next scream. He was alive. I took a deep breath, and the anger came crashing in. "You goddamn piece of filth!" I shrieked, throwing my clipboard at him. "You horrible, miserable…" my voice cracked. "Why? Why?"

"I saw the news report. I wanted to investigate how secure the corpse transfer is. It's not very good, might I add." He stood up off the gurney.

My adrenaline was still pumping. "You saw the report and decided, hey, you know what would cheer Watson up? How about pretending to be dead and showing up in the morgue for her to discover? Wouldn't that just make. Her. Day."

"You should be thanking me. I've shown that the carrier system is flawed, not you."

"Get. Out." My voice was shaking with rage. "Get out now before I call security."

Holmes snorted in disbelief.

"NOW, Holmes." I had never used that tone of voice with him before, and slightly taken aback, Holmes retreated from the morgue, letting the door swing shut behind him.

I tore the John Doe papers into tiny pieces.

He was waiting for me, when I finally returned, and he stood when I threw open the door to the sitting room. I marched past him and slammed my bedroom door behind me without meeting his eyes. I tore off my scrubs and got into bed, curling into a tight ball of misery.

The Organ Grinder's Daughter. I turned my head into my pillow and began to sob, as quietly as I could. I could have sworn I heard Holmes' footsteps hesitate at my door, but he never came in. I cried myself to sleep.

Is it any wonder I had nightmares? I found myself, sixteen again, scrambling up the bank of the Thames, while disembodied hands tried to pull me back, back into that dark, fatal water. Holmes was above me, yelling for me to hurry, to reach, to grab his hand… grab his hand. My father appeared behind him, and his axe whistled through the air. Holmes' arm bounced past me, and then his head, and I was screaming, screaming, screaming. The hands from the river crawled, grabbed my ankles, grabbed my shoulders. They were shaking me, shaking me… shaking me awake.

"Watson! Watson!"

I swung out, fists and feet kicking wildly. "No!"

"Wake up, wake up!"

I felt myself rising from the waters of the nightmare, waking to Holmes' hands on my shoulders. I was trembling, sobbing, and my throat was inexplicably raw.

"Watson – Watson, say something. Say something!"

"I – hate – you!" I managed to blurt out between convulsions. "I – HATE – you."

"No, no, Watson. No." His eyes were wide, searching mine frantically.

I sat up, shaking out of his grip. I drew my knees to my chest and put my head down atop them, shaking with the effort of taming my sobs.

"I am…" he began. I had never heard Holmes at a loss for words before. "I am – so, so very sorry Watson." He sat back on the edge of my bed, clenched his hands into fists and hit them against his knees. "I should have realized… I should have thought…" He swallowed. "Forgive me."

"I thought you were dead," I whispered.

"No." He took a deep breath. "You were screaming. I had to wake you. I'm sorry." He stood to leave.

"Don't go – " The words tore out of me. He turned to stare down at me.

"I don't … think…" his eyes flicked down to the ring on my finger.

"I didn't mean – "

Holmes looked away and coughed. I cast my eyes down, and pulled at the blankets with my fingers. A few seconds passed, and then I took a deep breath. "Can we order a pizza?"

"Pepe's delivers."

"No mushrooms."

Holmes nodded, and held his hand out. I took it, and he pulled me out of bed.


	6. The Speckled Bands

Later that week, in Dr. Stoner's lab, I sat at my desk pretending to review data (but really playing solitaire). Dr. Stoner was working in the other room collecting venom, but we both looked up when the dean of medicine burst into the lab.

He glanced over at me with a smile. "Ah, you must be the Sara Watson I've heard so much about."

I blanched, but he continued to smile and came over to shake my hand. "Dr. Stoner has said so many good things about you."

Dr. Stoner was quickly putting aside his equipment and yanking off his gloves, in a frantic hurry to greet the dean.

"You must be so proud," the dean said, continuing to pump my hand. "Why, Dr. Stoner told me just yesterday that without your most recent samples, the whole project would have been a bust. And to win a Distinguished Fellowship, at your age – well – that goes without saying."

Dr. Stoner had finally reached us. "Hello, hello," he muttered, trying to inject himself between the dean and I.

"Dr. Stoner, as always, a pleasure." I was relieved that the dean let go of my hand to grasp the doctor's. "You two must be so proud."

"Proud?" I asked, glancing between the two of them.

"The Fellowship award!"

I looked blank.

"Dr. Stoner didn't tell you?" The dean slapped Dr. Stoner on the back, making his glasses slip a little lower on his nose. "But you two are being honored tonight!"

"Don't think it's appropriate for her to come…" Dr. Stoner muttered.

"Appropriate! She's a guest of honor." The dean gave me a very serious look. "I hope you realize that your work contributed to a 500,000 pound bonus for your boss. He tells me he couldn't have done it without you."

"I… haven't done – anything…" I protested.

"Don't be modest! You must come, you're on the program. Black tie. 8 pm. Bring your young man, if you have one." The thought of dragging Holmes to a black tie event made me cringe, and the dean misread the look on my face. "Or young lady. Anyone really."

"Ah, I… ok."

"Excellent! See you then." The dean gave us both a bright smile, and left. Dr. Stoner and I stared at each other.

"Venom," he said, and returned to the snakes.

When I came home that afternoon, Holmes was in the same bathrobe that I had left him in that morning. He had his hands tied behind his back (goodness only knows how he'd managed that himself) and he was shooting a paintball gun at a portrait of Oscar Wilde with his back turned. I knew better than to ask.

I sat my bookbag down with a sigh. "Can I talk to you? Something weird happened today."

Holmes harrumphed. "Busy."

I swallowed. "Please?"

"No." He fired another shot.

I stepped into the line of fire. "Dr. Stoner's getting a 500,000 pound raise and he said it's because of my work. But I've barely done anything. They're honoring him tonight and the dean invited me. Personally. And I can't imagine why Dr. Stoner would give me any credit."

Holmes dropped the paintball gun and wiggled out of the rope. "500,000 pounds?"

"Yes."

"Are you getting a cut?"

"Don't think so."

"When did Dr. Stoner mention this? Today?"

"No, it was the dean that told me."

Holmes harrumphed again, then with a sudden decisiveness turned heel and disappeared into his bedroom. I wasn't sure what that meant, but a few minutes later a twenty-something version of Holmes appeared, in jeans and a hooded sweater. He took a handful of cigarettes from the slipper on the mantelpiece, and made for the door.

I had a sudden, painful desire to go with him, but as I stood Holmes held up one hand and went out the door without me. I ran to the landing at the top of the stairs. "Come back by eight!" I called down the stairs. "You'll go with me, won't you?"

"No!" Holmes let the door bang on his way out.

I felt my shoulders droop. I hadn't expected anything else, though. I considered not going at all, but my curiosity just wouldn't let me rest. I ended up taking a hurried dinner alone, and then had a quick shower and zipped myself into my all purpose black dress.

I took a cab to the hospital, and I was surprised to see it lit up and bustling. Apparently, this was an enormous event. I felt suddenly anxious, and tried to make my way inconspicuously among the men in tuxedos and women in sequined evening dresses. Everyone ignored me, especially once I had made my way inside, where the conference room was a sea of fancy clothes, punctuated by dinner tables and illuminated by rippling strings of lights. I was suddenly lost, and I drew my wrap back around my shoulders. What I wouldn't have given to have Ryan beside me. A server went past with a tray of champagne and I scrambled for one, hoping it would calm my nerves. The server handed me a napkin to go with the glass, and I thanked him. It was only after he left that I noticed Holmes' handwriting on the napkin: "_Stoner called the TV station. H._"

I stared at it, uncomprehending, as the lights went down and the presentation began. My head swimming slightly, I turned to watch as Dr. Stoner explained his work, and began presenting slides proving that the cancerous legions we harvested completely disappeared with the addition of venom. At the bottom of each slide was a photo credit with "S. Watson," and a date.

"Those aren't my slides," I whispered. I set the champagne glass down and stared at the napkin. _Stoner called the TV station_. "He's setting me up."

I turned from the room, pushing my way through the crowd. Was it my imagination, or did I hear Dr. Stoner pause in his presentation?

I burst from the conference room, picking up my skirt on both sides and began dashing towards the lab. There was a sudden creschendo of footsteps behind me, and I spun around.

It was only Holmes, in a caterer's uniform. I didn't bother to slow down, I turned back around and kept running. "Those aren't my slides," I spat, as Holmes caught up to me. "He faked the data. He's setting me up."

"If anyone catches him out, he'll blame you. That's why he called the TV station. To plant the seed."

"My notebooks," I said, frantically. "I have to get to my notebooks before he does. I can prove those aren't my slides." I slid to a stop in front of the lab and keyed in my access code. The door to the office clicked open, and we both went inside. I hurriedly unlocked the inner door to the snake lab. Holmes followed me, a little wary. "They can't get out," I said, gesturing to the snakes. "The only one who can open the cages is Dr. Stoner."

I pulled open a drawer and grabbed at the notebooks, relieved they were still there. "Let's go, I…" we turned back to the door to the lab, just in time to see it get bolted shut from the outside. Through the little glass window I could see Dr. Stoner, staring at the two of us, vacantly. He hit the intercom button, as if he were about to say something. Holmes and I stood frozen, staring at him.

Then Dr. Stoner shook his head, and pulled his finger off the intercom. He walked out of view but I had a sudden, dark premonition. Holmes grabbed my elbow.

The siren began to sound, and I watched the swamp adder cages begin to slide open. All of them. "Holmes," I whispered. "Stay very still. I'm going to get the antivenom." Slowly, I took a few steps to the side and flipped open the emergency kit. The antivenom needles had been removed. I stared in disbelief, and then began flinging open drawers, frantically searching for them.

"Watson?" Holmes asked, his voice slightly higher than normal.

"They're – not – here!" I panted. The first snakes began flitting at the openings. Holmes drew his gun from where it had been hidden in the back of his waistband. I grabbed an ethanol bottle. We watched the snakes began to drop out of their cages, casually, unhurried.

"The door?" Holmes asked, cocking the gun.

"Do it."

"Behind me."

I turned my back against Holmes'. He shot at the door handle once, twice, three times. The door dimpled slightly but didn't budge, although the sprinkler system came on. The snakes began to writhe and hiss, plopping from their cages onto the floor and sliding towards us.

"Holmes!" I shouted. I squirted ethanol at the nearest snakes. It did absolutely nothing. Water began to pool around our feet.

"Ceiling!" Holmes yelled, over the sound of the siren and the dripping water. I glanced up – the ceiling was fiberglass paneled.

"Help me up!"

Holmes put his hands out and I stepped into them with one foot. He braced himself and I stood up in his hands, suddenly three feet taller. I pushed at the ceiling tile and was relieved to feel it give. I threw it up and aside, grabbed the water pipe above it, and began to pull myself up. There was only just enough room to wiggle inside, turn around, and reach a hand down to Holmes. He jumped, our hands met, and his weight nearly ripped me down again. He slipped out of my grasp. "I'm too heavy! Move back!"

I wiggled backwards, and Holmes jumped again. His fingers grasped the edge of the hole, but the paneling buckled. I heard him curse as he landed again. He wasn't going to make it, I realized. I closed my eyes. How many panels to the office? Four? Five? I began to crawl along the ceiling. I scrunched myself into a tight ball, and then kicked out the fifth tile. It fell into the office and I dropped down behind it. I immediately turned and wrestled with the bolted door. The gunshots had damaged the mechanism, and I had to throw all my weight against it to crash it open. Holmes was only a second behind me, and he smashed the door shut, catching one of the adders midway down its length. The snake hissed and writhed, straining towards us, uselessly. Holmes stumbled a few steps, then slid to the floor. The snake gave a final writhe, and died.

Holmes cleared his throat. "Watson?" From the tone of his voice, I knew he'd been bit. I turned in a circle, then attacked Dr. Stoner's desk. Sure enough, the missing antivenom was in the top drawer. I grabbed one, tore it out of its packaging, and dropped beside Holmes. "Deep breath," I told him, and then stabbed him just above the knee. He flinched, then lay his head back against the wall. I removed the antivenom needle and rolled back the cuff of his sock – he'd been bitten just above the ankle.

"Anywhere else?"

Holmes shook his head. I let out a breath. "You're going to be fine." I sat back with a thump. "Now what?"

"Mmph." Holmes stood on wobbly legs and reached for the lab phone, dialing a number I didn't recognize. "Lestrade? Holmes. Get my note? Yes, yes, it's as I thought. Of course. Yes – thank you, inspector." I could hear the inspector frantically asking questions even as Holmes hung up.

"You're going to need a nap," I said, reading the antivenom syringe more carefully. I stood up. "Let's get you to the ER."

"Feel fine," Holmes said, thickly.

"Mm hm." I put one of his arms around my shoulder. "How about a cigar then?"

"Brilliant," he sighed, and let me lead him to the ER anyway.

* * *

I woke the next morning, crusty and tired, to find Holmes watching me from his hospital bed. "You snore."

I grimaced and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I shook out my shoulders and sat up straighter in the visitor's chair. "How do you feel?"

"Ryan texted you nine times," Holmes flipped open my phone. I lunged for it. "Careful, I'm invalid!" Holmes said, pulling it out of my reach.

"Where did you get that? Give it back!"

"How long does it take to fly from New York?" Holmes asked, reading through the texts.

"Seven hours. Why?"

"Hm. He should be here any minute now." Holmes tossed me the phone one handed. I caught it, barely, read my messages, and swore.

"At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet," Holmes said, flopping back against his pillows.

"What?"

"Plato."

I swore again.


	7. Enter Ryan Morstan

I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I didn't recognize Ryan – not at first. I looked straight past the bald man wearing dark sunglasses until he whipped them off an opened his arms for a hug. Astonished, I fell into him.

"Ryan, Ryan," I squeezed him. "Why on earth did you shave your head?"

He kissed the top of my head. "I'll be bald eventually, I thought I would give you a sneak peak at what's to come."

I giggled as I pulled back to see him better. I ran a hand over the complete bare dome. "I kinda like it, actually. Very Vin Diesel."

He pulled me back for a kiss, and I reciprocated. It had been too long without him. We broke apart with a contented hum. "Do you have a hotel reservation?" I asked.

Ryan ruffled my hair. "What, no room at the inn?"

"It's just that I haven't asked Holmes."

"Can't have guests of your own? From what you've told me, he's got a 'client' in and out of there once a week."

"Yes, you're right, it's just…" I took Ryan's hand as we headed for a cab. "Holmes can be… temperamental."

"If it's a problem, I'll just get rooms somewhere else."

"No," I said with sudden decisiveness. "You're my _husband_ for god's sake, I'll have you as my guest any time I please."

I thought that would make Ryan smile, but he frowned slightly instead. "Not your husband yet."

I felt cold. "What, has there been a change of plans?"

Ryan looked back at me and the smile broke over his face again. "Not in the slightest, banana pants."

"Please don't call me banana pants in front of Holmes."

* * *

We were in luck – when we got back to Baker Street the apartment smelled of tobacco, but nothing worse. Holmes was gone out, according to Mrs. Hudson, and I led Ryan up the stairs. At the top of the landing I turned around and was startled to see him only halfway up, struggling to pull his bag along with him.

"Gone soft?" I clattered back down to help him.

"Jet lagged," he said, quietly. He let me carry his bag, uncharacteristic for such a big man. I opened the door to the sitting room, put the bag down, and was treated to a bear hug from behind. "Which room is yours?" he grumbled in my ear. With a giggle, I pointed, and he dragged me into it and kicked to door shut behind him.

We had a private evening – Holmes never returned, and Ryan, once again citing jet lag, asked to go to sleep rather early. I lay down beside him, listening to him snore softly, happy to have him back beside me again.

I was startled out of sleep when, at exactly midnight, Ryan's wristwatch began shrilling an alarm. I groaned and rolled over. Ryan sighed and got out of bed.

"Where are you _going_?" I moaned.

"Need something from my backpack. Is it still in the sitting room?"

I grunted an affirmative and flopped back to sleep. Ryan opened the door to the sitting room, which was bright against the darkness of my bedroom. "Ah," Ryan said. "You must be Holmes."

I sat up.

There was a moment of quiet and then Holmes said with a growl, "Looking for this?"

I flung myself out of bed and stumbled into the sitting room to find the two men six feet apart in a staring contest. Holmes had one hand around Ryan's dangling book bag, the other hand thrusting a pill bottle towards my fiancée.

"Yes." Ryan said. "Now get your hands off of my bag."

"Do she know?" Holmes said, unmoving.

"Know what?" I asked, wrapping a hand around Ryan's arm.

Holmes tossed the pill bottle to Ryan, who snatched it out of the air with one hand. "Propycinol every six hours. You're bald, but no razor marks. Your belt has three new holes where you've tightened it. Weight loss." He rattled off first the medication, then the symptoms.

My medical training took over, and I gasped. "Cancer?"

Ryan grasped both my elbows. "Sweetest, darling, it's ok. It's ok."

"What _kind_ of cancer?" I demanded.

"Pancreatic."

I felt cold, as cold as if I'd suddenly turned to ice. "Oh, Ryan…"

He wrapped me up in his arms. They were trembling. It suddenly made sense – the baldness, the way he couldn't carry his bag up the stairs. Even as my mind said it was true, I refused to believe it. Pancreatic cancer – a death sentence. I clung to his solid frame, as if I could keep him there through touch alone. "Ryan," I began to cry.

I heard the door to the sitting room click shut. Holmes had left, quietly. Ryan's hands were now shaking too badly to open his bottle of pills. "Here darling, let me," I said, and took it from him.

* * *

I didn't sleep again that night. Ryan, shaking with exhaustion, had returned to bed, but I had left him for the sitting room.

Holmes returned while it was still dark to find me huddled in a blanket in front of the fireplace, watching the embers as they died. He sat down beside me, heavily.

I turned to him angrily, ready to tear into him for his rude behavior and snooping, but the lecture died to my lips. Holmes looked back at me, his face long and heavy. I turned away again.

"How long?" he asked quietly.

My lip trembled. "Five years. Maybe six."

"Are you still going to marry him?"

I could have slapped him. "Yes, Holmes, damn it! Of course!"

He reached out and patted my shoulder, awkwardly. "I expected no less of you, Watson." I felt my anger dissipate. Holmes leaned forward and put another log on the fire. "Better?"

I tightened my blanket around me and shivered. "No."


End file.
